


Culhwch Rewired: Working Title

by Alois_Zirconia



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Original Work
Genre: 'cause i went on a tv-show binge, Arthurian legend - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oops, Slow Burn, bite me, oh look it's another bullshit work, vaguely merlin-inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alois_Zirconia/pseuds/Alois_Zirconia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Culhwch isn't a very happy guy nowadays. He's got his unloyal friends, the girl in the woods, and his not-so-own room. He's even got an evil step-mother! And now...</p><p>He's got a babysitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The arrival

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see above, this has a working title or whatever - basically means that i might change the title. This is a series i wrote for my awesome English teach - remember the guy? He's quite tired of me, by now, so it's fortunate that i'm changing schools next year. Anyways - this started off as a random what-the-fuck-am-i-doing-ehh-whatever-it's-just-a-oneshot-anyway. Boy, was I wrong. 
> 
> I do hope that i'll be able to drag this on for a while, and not abandon it as i so unfortunately have a habit of doing. It's based off the arthurian legend of Culhwch and Olwen (spoilers!), though very vaguely. It's mostly the names and backstories and such.
> 
> So, uhh - i hope you have a great time? Knock yourself out, and i'll do my best to finish this
> 
> jeus christ no one is even readin this

The day the travelling sorcerer entered the realm of Saoirse, the forest seemed to still in its swaying, and the clouds darkened in the blink of an eye. The soldiers stationed at the gate of the capital, nearest town to the border, nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to tell the king, only to discover everyone else had had the same thought.

The castle was flooded with people of all ages and sizes, crowding the rooms and blocking the halls. “Give way!” the soldiers shouted, pushing through the crowd. It was an uphill battle, but nothing could distract the soldiers from their duty.

When they finally arrived at the king’s throne room, they found him glaring ominously at anyone daring to come within arm’s reach of him. The court physician was there, the maids were there, and so were the knights.

“He came riding on a grey horse the color of thick smog,” the first solider said vehemently. He was notably flushed from running all the way to the castle, and was steadily reddening. “A cloak the color of freshly spilled blood, I say–”

“Poppycock!” exclaimed the second, frowning indignantly. “His horse was the blackest of all, _I_ say, and his cloak was even darker!”

“I have no idea what you speak of,” the third guard said mildly. He was a short and plump man, looking quite indifferent in the face of the threat this stranger emitted, entering the realm. “If you’d asked me, I’d have said he came here on foot, I wou–”

“Well, no one asked you,” the first soldier interrupted him. “And what of his cloak? If I were to ask you, would you then say he was wearing a _nightgown_ _?_ ”

The king grew tired of the commotion. “Silence!” he roared, startling all three men. “I cannot bear listening to you three _bicker_ for another moment, heed my words,” he snarled, leaning forward in his chair.

The three men gulped. “Apologies, Sire,” the second soldier whimpered. “Apologies, apologies,” the other two hastily repeated after him.

“Now,” the king purred, leaning back in his seat, “who is this _stranger_ you come yelling of?”   

The men looked at each other. They blanched. They cringed. They shrugged. They significantly implied things using their eyebrows. Finally, just as the king’s temper was running short, the first soldier carefully came forth.

“Sire,” he begun, the other two soldiers seemingly holding their breath. “A cloaked stranger entered the south gates, wearing– well…” He glanced back at the two other soldiers. “We don’t know what he was wearing.”

The king rolled his eyes so violently the men half expected them to fall out of his head and roll like a game of dice.

“But the minute we spotted him crossing the border, Sire, the sky darkened and the fields seemed to wither before him! He rode in a gentle trot, no faster than a herd of cattle, though it happened in the blink of an eye, Sire!”

“When was this?” the king snarled.

They looked at each other. “About fifteen minutes time ago,” one spoke up. “The halls are filled with people, so we had trouble getting through.”

“You should have seen it, Sire,” the second soldier squeaked. “It was as if the entire town was here.”

______________________

 

Moreover, the soldier was right. Everyone had noticed the change the stranger brought, and had thus done the only thing they could do – they went to the king.

So it was to be that when the stranger passed the actual town gates, there was no one in sight. The streets were empty, and all houses were silent, despite smoke drifting steadily from the chimneys. _Snowden’s gates are similar to that of a raided village’s_ , the stranger thought, looking at an overthrown wagon filled with fresh fruits and greens.

Clearly, it was not devoid of human inhabitants – chimneys aside, there were abandoned baskets lying around at the market, and he thought he’d caught a glimpse of a sheep feasting on something in a back alley.

It was remarkable, then, that the stranger was unfazed. He climbed up on his horse – yes, there was a horse involved, contrary to what the third soldier said, though it was neither black nor grey – and kept a steady trot towards the castle.

 _No matter_ , the sorcerer thought, picking up a stray apple and taking a bite. _It wouldn’t go amiss to have a look around_.

______________________

 

Meanwhile, the three soldiers had completed their explanation to the now mightily agitated king, with a limited amount of contradicting comments from the third man.

“So you’re saying,” the king spoke, dangerously calm, “that no one stopped him from entering the town? That he was free to just _wander in_?”

The second soldier nodded. A glass smashed against the wall, shattering inches away from his head.

“ _You imbeciles_! You _asinine, fumbling_ –”

The three soldiers ran out of the room like the devil was on their heels.

______________________

 

When the nameless sorcerer arrived at the castle, he dismounted his horse and tied it to a convenient tree, patting its withers and throwing his apple core onto the ground.

The castle stood tall and proud before him, the flag of Saoirse strung from pillars and towers to blow in the harsh wind. A young boy, he saw, was peeking out of a window, staring curiously at him. Consequently, he was ignoring his mother and her game of tug-of-war with his arm.

Letting his eyes drift over the stone walls of the castle, they came to rest on an adolescent standing on a balcony. He was a gangly, lanky lad, with the most prominent cheekbones the sorcerer had ever come across and eyes to match the bluest of sapphires. The sorcerer frowned at his soppy thoughts. He was no blushing maiden.

 _‘_ _S true, though_ , he thought, covering his eyes against the spring sun so he could see the boy better. Whoever the boy was, he certainly wasn’t observant. The sorcerer had been standing in the middle of the castle courtyard for a couple of minutes now, blatantly staring at him, yet he hadn’t noticed.

Before he had a chance to do so, our sorcerer hid in the shadow of the tree he’d tied his horse to – by the gods, how had the boy missed the large _horse_ prancing right into the empty courtyard? – and found he could just about see the boy from his position. He watched him for a couple of minutes.

He didn’t know why, but the boy intrigued him at some instinctive level – it was as if his entire body was commanding him to pay attention. Who was this boy? What thoughts had captivated him such, with the result of him spacing out completely? The castle could come crumbling down, and the sorcerer wouldn’t bet a shilling on the boy so much as flinching.

Finally, the boy seemed to jerk out of his reverie, bringing up a startled hand to touch his face. It was a strange motion – some sort of habit, perhaps? The strange boy took a quick look around and came to the same conclusion the traveler had reached – no one there.

After the adolescent had reassured himself of the fact, he returned to his previous position, leaning his elbows on the railing. He huddled into a small ball of gangly limbs, and the sorcerer smiled. He, too, felt the harsh wind.

After looking around once more, the boy gathered his hands, seeming to whisper _something_ _–_ the sorcerer’s eyes widened. A blue flame blossomed in the boy’s palm, and said boy immediately relaxed, holding the spell encased in his grasp near his chest. It was a temporary spell, the traveler knew, and it would only last for the barest of moments.

 _He’s like me_ , his mind seemed to whisper as he gazed wonderingly up at the boy on the balcony, clinging onto the last wisps of warmth the spell provided before it faded away. The boy spared one last glance at the courtyard and its harsh weather, then hurried inside to the warmth of the castle. _A sorcerer_.

 

 


	2. The frettance

As he stalked the cold corridors of the castle, Culhwch felt anxious.

This was nothing new – his friends fancied teasing him for his tendency to fret. He’d worry himself sick whenever one of his mates got caught doing no good – stealing a pie from the baker’s morning batch, or perhaps ruffling the skirts of old ladies at the harbor by wailing crude things at the top of their lungs.

When things like these happened, people came to Culhwch. People knew Culhwch, he knew them back, and everyone knew that Culhwch knew everyone. Whenever he thought he’d gotten a bit of spare time for himself, another lady came shrieking about buns and Jims and bakers. “Not to worry,” he’d say, “I’ll go sort it out.”

And he’d hunt down the Jims and the buns and the bakers. He’d console the baker – who always appreciated an extra penny or two, – and he’d go to the tavern where the Jims were consuming the buns. “Jim,” he’d say, frowning, “You’ve landed yourself in quite a spot of bother, now.” And then he’d give a meaningful look or two to all the lads who were listening in.

“No matter,” they’d all say, “I’m sure Culhwch can fret us out of it!”

This time, though, there was no buns nor Jims. There was just Culhwch, with a coil of worry eating its way through his stomach – cold, like he’d just swallowed a lump of ice. This time, he opted to ignore it. There was simply nothing else he could do.

There were no Jims to yell at, no bakers to pay and no screaming women on his heels, so Culhwch did what he did best. He fretted.

______________________

Approximately half an hour after storming into the king’s court chambers, the sorcerer was now comfortably settled in a lavish room. Locked in, actually, as it happens to be. He sat slouched on the bed with his head in his hands, trying to figure out how this had happened.

The traveler had entered the king’s council chambers as he entered most things in life – with a flourish. The doors sprung open before him, and the heavy curtains closed themselves before the eyes of all within said room. Candles flickered out – a hush fell over the chambers.

And then he’d had a knife resting against his throat, and he’d landed himself the position of royal babysitter – more accurately, royal _youth_ _-_ sitter. The sorcerer was to watch over the king’s ward, who apparently caused an abundance of trouble when combined with his mates. As long as this hassle was prevented, he now had a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and clothes on his back.

So why was there a growing feeling of dread replacing the content feeling of a full stomach?

______________________

The king was a man with a kingdom to rule at all times, and thus had little time for trivialities which were not in some way related to politics. His wife had taken to wandering the halls of the castle as silently and longingly as a ghost, and he spoke to his very own daughters once a week.

It was a mystery to all as to why he had taken in the fragile child who showed up on a cold night in august. Some say it was out of goodwill, some say it was the child of a paramour, and thus out of guilt. Some say nothing at all.

The statement closest to the truth, however, would be that a once-beloved, now-poor cousin of his had gone mad, leaving a child behind in the cold grasp of cruelty. There were none other willing to take him in, strangely enough – or maybe not so strangely. His mother had been a lonesome woman who kept to herself, and as far as anyone knew, the king had been the only other child her age whom she had showed compassion and kindness in her young age.

His mother had gone mad after being frightened by a herd of swine – peculiar circumstances, at best, but she’d always been a bit paranoid. It was hardly unbelievable. The poor little boy had slipped from his mother’s arms to land in the pigsty, and as his mother hysterically screamed of cursed beasts and worse things to come, the villagers had eventually found him greeting in the mud.

The king’s wife had been reluctant at first. She’d scoffed – her, Goleuddydd, allow her husband to take in some dirt-poor child of bad heritage? Preposterous! Just imagining the whispers had her shuddering in revolt – what it’d do to her reputation!

Yet the king would not back down. She had been a dear friend, this mother of his, he insisted. As he wasn’t his heir in blood, he wouldn’t even inherit the throne – it wouldn’t mar the royal bloodline in the slightest. There would be only her blood anywhere near the rulers to come, the king assured his wife.

He named his ward Culhwch, similar to his own name, Cilydd.

______________________

Culhwch didn’t know what his father wanted this time.

He’d made his bed, smiled at his father’s wife, eaten his breakfast, smiled at the servants, and he hadn’t even gone to see his friends! The guards had stopped him on his way out, muttering about kings and duties. He frowned. Had Jim ben causing trouble again? Maybe Owen?

As his thoughts led him spiraling down a winding path, his feet led him through the halls and to his father’s private chambers. No public reprimand, then, and no Goleuddydd either. His frown deepened. Had he left his clothes on the floor?

Even if they had servants aplenty, Goleuddydd preferred having him do his chores as any other village boy would – it was the highlight of her day when Culhwch was led in by the guards into their chambers. She’d sit perched atop his father’s study desk and watch on with badly concealed glee as his father went red with rage and Culhwch went red with shame.

Now, however, he walked into his father’s _private_ chambers, it was barren. The lights weren’t lit, and a lone set of curtains were pulled open to shine upon a letter on the king’s abandoned sturdy desk. Culhwch was befuddled. Was this some sort of silent treatment – a new, weird tactic?

He walked up to the letter, picking it up and briskly cutting it open with a convenient paper knife lying next to it. Not a coincidence, then. The king clearly wanted him to have this letter, but wouldn’t it be easier to simply say what he had to say? His hands stilled in the middle of pulling the letter out of the envelope. Was it, perhaps, something so likely to upset him his father didn’t dare to say it face to face? He opened the letter.

_**I have assigned you a chaperone.** _

A window smashed.


End file.
